The Demise of Order
by Lord Drash
Summary: What will the world of Harry Potter be, when Harry Potter never makes it past that Halloween night? An AU where Voldemort succeeds, at least partially, and shatters Fate's designs.


**The Demise of Order**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter, although considering he won't be in this story after this chapter I don't see how that matters. Oh, and I also don't own any of these other characters, that would be Ms. Rowling.  
**

**Chapter 1: The Man-Who-Killed**

Voldemort strolled through the barrier of the Fidelius Charm effortlessly, barely even feeling the magic tug at him as the Potter's house became visible. His blazing eyes narrowed in satisfaction as neither Potter came to see the intruder. Apparently Wormtail was correct in his assertion that they would be relying entirely on the charm and didn't bother setting up even rudimentary wards.

The warm yellow light from the house washed over Voldermort's pale skin, giving the deathly white color a sickening slick look, like that of wet bones. He moved towards the house, passing so easily over the dew-wet lawn that he seemed to be gliding, leaving the blades of grass undisturbed. His cloak flapped around his skeletal form, giving him an eerie and unnatural aura of grace. Voldemort's entrance into the house was not as graceful.

The front door exploded with a wave of his wand, the debris shredding the doorframe, but merely bouncing off the Dark Lord's skin like water droplets. A scream accompanied his arrival, sharp and short, before being cut off by a man yelling.

"Lily! Go to Harry, I'll slow him down!"

Voldemort saw a red-haired woman turn away from him, knocking over a thin wooden chair in her hurry to reach the stairs. He snarled as a spectacled man stepped towards him, but not wanting the woman to reach the boy first he aimed his first spell at her. The air rippled around Voldemort's wand as the spell slipped past Potter as he aimed his wand and slammed into the woman's back, whirling her away from the stairway and hurling her into a china cabinet, shattering the glass.

Because of this however, Voldemort wasn't able to react in time to the man's shouted spell, and his shield was brought up too late to block all of it. The maroon bolt caught him in the shoulder, tearing the cloak and leaving a large seeping wound. Before the man could strike again, Voldemort slashed his wand at him, creating a whip of crimson fire that wrapped around the man, searing his flesh and forcing a scream of such agony that Voldemort grinned. Twisting his wand, the whip detached itself and curled tighter around the man. Deciding that neither Potter would cause him anymore trouble, he strode through the house unchallenged.

The simple trappings of a Light wizarding family surrounded him, and the urge to destroy them as he traveled up the stairway bubbled up inside him, their familial charm tugging at a patience already strained by his injury. It was only the man's fading shrieks of agony that stopped Voldemort from simply blasting everything around him. And when he reached the top of the stairs and heard the sounds of the wailing child, his mouth split in a gross parody of a smile.

All other thoughts and goals fled from Voldemort's mind as he entered the child's room. His schemes to gain immortality, his manipulations to hold onto his minions, his aspiration to rule the world, all of that fell to the wayside as he entered the room of Harry Potter, the baby prophesied to defeat him.

He stared at the child, his face spurring the weeping baby into greater cries of terror. He searched the child for any evidence of what it could have that would make it a threat, any hint of a secret magical talent, any clue that could prove his downfall, but all he could see was a pitiful and soon-to-be dead baby.

He raised his wand, words of the second-to-last deadly curse he would cast for over a decade on his lips, when he paused. This moment…felt off. He could feel a great weight pushing on him, trying to guide him away from his course of action. If he had to describe the increasingly desperate feeling, he would say it was like the universe was terrified and furious that it wasn't getting its way and was throwing a temper tantrum because of it. He realized this was what it felt like to defy a Prophecy.

Laughing at fate, Voldemort shouted the Killing Curse and two things happened simultaneously. The first and the most relevant in terms of how much it altered the course of the world's future was Harry Potter's death at the hands of Voldemort's Killing Curse. There was no explosion of magic, no last-minute rescue, no divine intervention. The green bolt simply struck the child on his forehead and killed him.

The second thing that happened could have been interpreted as the prophecies final attempt to reassert itself, just a few seconds too late.

Lily Potter tackled Voldemort from behind. She was snarling and weeping and Voldemort found himself in the unenviable position of being strangled by the one Potter he didn't want to kill. He cast a Banishing Charm, but the awkward angle and tight grip of a mother frantically trying to defend the son she already knows is dead barely loosened her grasp. Spots danced in his vision as it grew harder to breathe. It was when he tried to cast a stronger Charm and realized that he couldn't vocalize the words for the spell that he realized that he might die anyways.

Keeping this woman alive was not worth his life, so Voldemort aimed again and fired off a silent spell that boiled the skin off Lily's arms. Screams of physical pain mixed with the emotional ones, but amazingly she held on even as her arms changed to smoking pain-tunnels. Feeling the edge of real fear creeping into his fading vision, Voldemort fired again, this time into her face.

The spell was fast-acting, and although its primary purpose was for a painful death, the death part didn't take long. As Lily's grip weakened even as her face melted, she scrabbled one last time with her hand at Voldemort, digging into and tearing wider his shoulder wound before collapsing to the floor, writhing in the final stages of desperate agony.

Regaining his breath and composure, Voldemort glared down at the ruined mess of the woman, taking rather vindictive pleasure in her torment, already planning on how he would spin this…unfortunate turn of events.

His mission complete Voldemort turned and fled, wincing as the pain in his shoulder grew more intense. He passed James' still form, wanting to leave before Dumbledore or the order arrived. Still, as he left the Potter house he took the time to cast one last spell before Apparating away.

"_MORSMORDRE!"_

###

Voldemort appeared in one of his safe-houses. Thick stone lined the walls and a throne-like chair lay firmly planted surrounded by flickering crimson torches. A thick, almost pungent scent wafted through the air, carried aloft by wispy mist emanating from beige candles around six thin pillars in the chamber. Instantly he cast a healing spell at his wound. The spell worked quickly, sending out purple strands that rapidly stitched the skin together. Feeling some relief, Voldemort prepared to enact his next plan, when something went wrong.

The spell faded and the wound started to grow again. Cursing he cast it again, but after a few seconds the same result happened. Realizing that whatever spell Potter used on him would not be cured so easily he was forced to summon someone he wasn't prepared to meet.

"SNAPE." Voldemort said, magically enhancing his voice so it traveled through his chambers and reached the ears of his Potions Master.

The first person to respond to his summons was not Snape. Instead a thin, brutally beautiful woman came sauntering into his chambers, draped in tattered robes, artfully ripped and torn to show off her curves and allow easy movement.

"My lord," she purred, slinking towards with a look of absolute devotion, "I trust the mission went well?"

"Not entirely Bellatrix," Voldemort snapped, "That Potter bastard hit me with some resistant curse and I was forced to kill-"

"You called for me my lord?" a man asked, striding into the chamber, his sallow face such a tight mask of control that it looked nearly less human that of his master.

"Fetch me a potion Snape, I need this wound closed."

"Of course my lord. If I could have a moment to examine it?"

"Quickly," Voldemort said.

Bellatrix also moved forward, intent on assisting her lord as well, but Voldemort dismissed her, not in the mood for dealing with her particular bloody-minded obsession with him. Normally it was soothing, but right now he didn't want to be soothed. He wanted to be focused, so that he could plan and enact his next scheme, the one that would cripple the Ministry and drive Dumbledore to his knees. Yes, the plan would feature the Dementors of course, a critical-

"My I inquire as to the…results of the night, my lord?" Snape asked, as he carefully cast several analysis spells at the wound.

"I killed the Potters," Voldemort said, thinking over how he would spin this as he spoke. He felt reasonably confident in the story he had prepared, as Snape always did enjoy pointing out flaws in others. "I did try to avoid killing Lily, but she foolishly persisted in attacking me after I dealt with Potter and the boy. Honestly Severus, I don't understand what you saw in her. She may have possessed some measure of beauty, but she was also suicidally stupid. Perhaps you could regard this as a favor from me, in that killing that mudblood I have freed you to pursue more…appropriate targets."

There was a long silence as Snape finished his examination, his expression as blank as when he came in. Just as Voldemort started to wonder if perhaps he did not choose the best tactic in dispensing the news, Snape's face split into a truly poisonous sneer. "You are right my lord. I have no business associating with mudbloods. I thank you for your consideration."

"Excellent. And the wound?" Voldemort said, pleased at the Potion's Master's reaction. Snape's tone combined a pleasing amount of servitude, gratitude and disgust at his unfortunate crush. With such a desirable mindset, conceivably Snape would serve him well in a more trusted position.

"A simple matter. It is merely charmed to be resistant to spells, but a basic healing potion will remove it. I shall return in a moment with the correct potion."

With a most humble bow, Snape left the chamber, leaving Voldemort alone again. With the prophecy thwarted, Snape proven more reliable and valuable than he thought and his irritating injury about to be taken care of, his only remaining problem was that muggle-lover Dumbledore. Perhaps Snape could be used to eliminate his last major threat, as the old fool has taken his loyal minion into his complete confidence. With Dumbledore deceased the Ministry would fall and the world would soon lay at his feet.

His slight smile vanished when Snape strode into the room, carrying a small vial of crimson liquid touched with a hint of emerald. Voldemort reached for it, prepared to cast his standard poison-detecting charm when two things happened.

First, he realized that he had Snape at a delicate position. A slight push could slide him into place as the perfect Death Eater, or send him sliding into uselessness. He was annoyingly obsessed with his potion quality, and any slight, real or otherwise, could damage his pride and force retaliation. Obviously he would not dare any type of reprisal to his master, but by showing trust in Snape, it might be possible to maintain his confidence and prevent him from feeling any rebellious tendencies later.

Second, his wound let loose with a truly awful twitch of pain which actually forced Voldemort's hand forward, grabbing the potion and nearly knocking it from Snape's grasp. Snarling with frustration he brought it to his lips and downed the thing in a single vicious gulp.

If Voldemort had taken a moment, he might have noticed a third thing: Snape's free hand firmly grasping his wand.

"Thank you Severus. You will be greatly rewarded for your loyalty tonight."

"That is most generous of you my lord…but I am afraid your ability to dole out rewards will be greatly diminished shortly."

"What?" Voldemort asked, "Are you making a jest?"

"Of course not my lord," Snape said with that vicious sneer slowly tearing into his face again. Never before had Voldemort ever hear anyone say the words _my lord_ and make them sound so insulting. As if the words themselves were animal droppings that had to be forcefully expelled from the inside of one's mouth.

"Your tone," Voldemort said, raising his own wand. "What is this?"

"Lily's revenge."

"Traitor!" Voldemort said, "_Avad-_agh!_"_

A bolt of agony ripped through Voldemort's insides as his organs boiled. His wand clattered to the floor, all thoughts of spells and magic crashing away from his mind, driven forth by pain and shock.

Snape stared down at Voldemort, thoughts of all the other bilious words he had been holding back all those years fighting to burst from his mouth. In the end though, as Voldemort scrabbled along the floor, blood pouring from his mouth and splattering on Snape's feet, he simply shook his head and walked away.

The last sight Voldemort saw before he died for the first time, was that of Severus Snape's boots leaving a dark trail of his blood as he strode out the door, standing taller than he had ever seen him before. His last thought before dying was of anger at his own foolishness and rage at his worthless minions.

His last words: "I will murder everything that you are."


End file.
